Where hath the Calliope found themselves? In a Hamsterdance!

We were robbed, nay, shanked by bicycle hooligans in a week-old squat named "under the bridge." It was under a bridge. They took my tools, and for shame our camera for lo we would transport ourselves out of Port Amsterdam into the slightly more north part of Port Amsterdam, to the legendary of Freaks.

We arrived at the end of drive and I jumped the barbed-wire fence and searched about the old wherehouse, seeing nary a soul. I returned and Kayne and I transported our baggage over the gate and trees to a more secure locale so that we might dig deeper into the quagmire of trash and gutted boats and autos for a sign of human life. Human life we didst find, dear reader, we didst, in the form of a gaggle of pirates, some on LSD, others simply drunk on liquor and sleep deprevation. It had been 4 of their birthdays. That would seem rather unlikely, if 30 people didn't live in this abandoned wherehouse and school.

One party-goer walked barefoot in the smoldering coals of a fire full of rusty burned nails. A woman cornered me and with piercing eyes told me of her daughter and how there were bad times but her friends had saved her. We haggled our way into at least staying the night there, though we would have to go to a meeting the next day in order to be granted a longer reprieve from the anxiety of homelessnessness.

The next day, after an exhaustive bout of street performance and interweb research in the tourist quarter of Hamsterdance, the Calliope made its way back to the House of Freaks. The meeting was a highly functional yelling match in Dutch and English and concerned upcoming parties, the nature of casual insults, and the prevalence of dog shit throughout the fabled crusty lands. I made our case to stay a few eves. Itt was, apparently accepted. No "yes", no "no", just a healthy noncommittal. Our tent was pitched, so who cared, right? Thank you Amsterdam, for as one friend said "it's like they think they invented activism."

Past the Nissan factory and flanked by rail upon one side and ditch the other, we velocopeded our way to a squatted Harbor. Yes, that's right, a squatted harbor. Kayne welded a tall bike whilst I looked through frames for something to build for our upcoming ride to Barcelona. Dearest reader, it is truly a tragedy that we no longer have a camera. They have a catapult here, built from railroad ties and a crane shovel that apparently launches things into the adjacent bays. There are cob houses, happy animals everywhere, a huge machine shop. It's truly a steam punk's endless wet dream. It lies on the outskirts of Hamsterdance, nestled next to a Roma village, under massive wind turbines. The large Warehouse is filled with classic cars and boats being refurbished and has a simple, yet glorious name (for those of you who love your dear Calliope)...ROBODOCK!!!

Kayne welded, in that wonderful land of Robodock, two frames of bicycles one uponce the other and ghost rode it back to the House of Freaks for further repair. We ate peanut butter sandwiches by the eerie streetlight, silently lamenting that we had chosen to investigate the House of Freaks before venturing to the land that held Robodock.